Page 98 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

But because Whiskey knew exactly what would hurt Wade most.

Humiliation.

Wade's worst moment replayed forever, set to circus music, turned into a meme that would outlive his career.

Whiskey plays dumb.

Whiskey is not dumb.

And now Wade Kelly is out for blood because an alpha with no impulse control made him look like a fucking joke on national television.

We head back out onto the ice and the second period begins with the Demons playing desperate.

They've abandoned any pretense of strategy in favor of raw aggression.

It doesn't work.

I intercept a sloppy pass at our blue line and transition into a breakaway that catches their defense flat-footed. The ice opens up ahead of me, nothing but clean white and the goal waiting at the other end. My legs pump, wind rushing past my ears.

Their goalie sets himself, trying to cut down the angle. I read his positioning in a glance. Weight slightly right, expecting me to go glove side.

Classic fucking mistake.

I deke left, pull back right, and roof the puck into the top corner before he can react.

Four-nothing.

Whiskey nearly tackles me as the arena erupts.

"HAT TRICK WATCH!"

He shakes me by the shoulders like I'm a vending machine that owes him money. I would know. I've seen it.

"You're never allowed espresso before a game again," I say flatly, extracting myself from his grip with what remains of my dignity.

It isn't much.

Wade's face is a thundercloud as play resumes. The golden boy is crumbling, and everyone can see it. His passes go wide. His positioning suffers. He snaps at teammates who make mistakes, then makes worse mistakes himself.

Whiskey takes the ice again, and I watch Wade's positioning immediately shift. He drifts toward the opposite wing, putting as much distance them as the play will allow. When Whiskey charges toward a puck battle in the corner, Wade suddenly finds urgent business near his own goal.

Of all the things I was expecting to feel today, amusement wasn't one of them.

Life is just full of fucking surprises.

Meanwhile, Wraith is battling for position in front of the net, stick locked with a Demons defenseman. I can physically see Wraith struggling to keep his feral nature at bay. Struggling enough to be distracted, his eyes flashing a dangerous blue.

The puck shoots loose and both players lunge for it.

The defenseman's elbow comes up.

Not by accident.

The hit catches Wraith square in the mouth.

Wraith's head snaps back. He staggers, one hand flying to his mask, and even from across the ice I see the dark bloom of blood spreading across the dark fabric. Part of it tore from the hit, the thin slice baring red and white I know is blood on his teeth.

The whistle blows.